


Still Time to Breathe Again

by MayContainBlueberries



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, More tags to be added as I remember??? how to tag shit???, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Suicide Attempt, That's not a real tag but it should be, i mean ish? that's how I'm interpreting Ep. 75, of a sort, platonic domestic bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-08-27 17:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16707055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayContainBlueberries/pseuds/MayContainBlueberries
Summary: Sammy moves in with Ben, life continues.Set between Episode 75 and King Falls Chronicles 3.





	1. Sammy's In The Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for general hospital stuff, nothing too graphic.

The time between the rainbow light striking the station and the hospital is a blur of impressions: his car spinning off the road into the guardrail. Blood dripping into his eyes. Troy's voice. An ambulance, paramedics peering at him. Doctors and nurses and a carton of apple juice he unthinkingly gulps down and matching throbbing pains on the front and back of his head. Moving from gurney to cot to exam room to cot. A nurse giving him "just something to help you sleep, now we're sure you don’t have a serious concussion".

He sleeps straight through the night in a fog.

When he blinks into bleary consciousness, he barely knows where he is, who he is. He grasps for that ignorance as it slips away, and groans. He feels like his brain is pounding against the inside of his skull. The back of his head where it rests on the pillow is tight and hot.

Someone sniffles.

Sammy open his eyes fully and looks around the room. He's still in the hospital, bed surrounded by close curtains. There’s one of those stands that holds IV bags but its empty. Near the foot of the bed are two chairs and in one sits Ben Arnold, curled into himself, one hand in his hair and another clasped around his knees.

"Ben?" Sammy says. His voice rasps past a throat that feels like sandpaper.

"Sammy!" Ben nearly leaps out of his seat, spring loaded.

He looks like he hasn’t slept, his hair mussed, his clothes wrinkled, eyes red rimmed.

"They wouldn’t let me see you last night and it was past visiting hours and I couldn’t get Mr Baumgartner to let me crash in his car and Troy had to go home and I tried to break in but they caught me so Emily came to get me she’s getting coffee right now they have this really good coffee machine but like zero food," words are spilling out of Ben like he needs to fill up the space with them and he’s hovering kind of over Sammy as though he doesn’t know where to stand. And his energy is the exact opposite of Sammy’s right now.

Sammy grabs Ben’s arm with shaking fingers and Ben stops talking and suddenly he’s crying, silent tears finally spilling from his eyes. He turns away, scrubbing at his face with his free hand.

"Sorry," he says in a voice that has broken hours before, that hasn’t been glued back together.

"Ben," Sammy says again. "It’s okay buddy."

"I-" Ben faces Sammy again, "I was just so fucking... no. Its okay. You’re right. How do you feel?" He tries for a weak grin.

Sammy manages a grimace back. "Kind of like shit. Groggy. My head is killing me."

"You have a really big gash on the back of your head and a cut on your forehead from the crash," Ben says. "They say you don’t have a concussion I guess..." he sounds skeptical of the doctors and Sammy almost laughs. Feels the part of him that would tease Ben as though it’s locked inside a frosted glass cabinet.

"I can go see if the nurse is around, he was here about an hour ago." Ben doesn’t move and Sammy realizes he’s still holding onto Ben’s arm. He lets go quickly. And Ben slips out of the curtains.

He doesn’t ask if he should stay and Sammy feels adrift when he’s gone but no that’s stupid he’s coming back and wanting him to stay is childish and selfish so he clamps down on his feelings, takes a few deeps breaths of the air that smells like Lysol and plastic. Tries to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. Tries to stop shaking.

Soon enough the curtain is drawn back and there is Ben with Emily, who’s carrying two paper cups of coffee, and with a nurse in burgundy scrubs who asks Sammy how he’s feeling and gives him a tylenol for the pain and makes as though to move on but before he can bustle efficiently out Ben asks, "when can he go home?"

 _Home_ , Sammy thinks with a sinking feeling.

"The doctor wants to change his dressing and check the stitches, but then he should be free to go" the nurse says and Sammy doesn’t even care that they're talking about him like he’s not in the room because all he can think is _home home home home_ a rhythmic drumbeat that reminds him he does not have a home – doesn’t even have his apartment anymore.

Anxiety and self loathing well up in his chest and as the nurse leaves Emily brushes some hair out of his face. She’s definitely been crying too but her voice is bright as she says, "there’s some kind of food for you."

Sammy looks where she’s gesturing and sees a cardboard takeaway box with a label that says BREAKFAST - VEGAN.

He feels vaguely sick to his stomach and says, "I’m not vegan"

"I think that’s all they had," says Ben and he’s also trying to sound cheerful except it sounds like he has a cold.

"Do you want to see what mysteries it has for you?" Emily sits on the edge of his bed and grabs the box.

It turns out to have a sandwich that is, in its entirety, two pieces of white bread with a slice of soy cheese between them, a tub of soy yogurt and another carton of apple juice. Sammy drinks the juice but leaves the rest on his lap. 

Ben drags one of the chairs closer and sits, looking awkwardly around. Sammy imagines he’s probably memorized the small rectangle of space around them long ago.

Emily sips her coffee and says, "You should eat something too, Sammy."

"In a bit," Sammy says. He’s starting to feel a bit sleepy again and maybe that wasn’t a tylenol they gave him but before he can ask Ben the nurse motors back in.

"The doctor wants to see you now. Just you," he glances sharply at Ben who looks a little sheepish and Sammy guesses the story of Bens midnight break in attempt has spread through the hospital.

Emily helps him to his feet and he follows the nurse who almost speed-walks them to an exam room where the doctor takes off some bandages Sammy purposely avoids looking at and applies a new dressing to the back of Sammy's head and declares him good to go.

"Come back in a week to get the stitches out," he says and sweeps out.

Everyone seems to be in a hurry in this hospital.

Sammy isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to wait for the nurse but he’s a grown fucking man so he finds his own way back to the room of curtained beds.

"They said I could go," he tells Emily and Ben, who are both sitting on the edge of the bed now.

"That’s great," says Emily.

There’s a sinkhole in Sammy's gut and he feels poised on the edge of a cliff.

"I uh," he says, and he feels so fucking lost. "What happened to my car?"

"It got towed to a repair shop," Ben says. "Not Ernie’s" he clarifies.

"I'm giving you both a ride home," Emily says.

Sammy wants to scream, _that’s not a place! I don’t have a home!_  

But he just nods.

The drive from Big Pines is forgettable. Sammy stares blankly out the window in a fog as Emily and Ben talk softly in the front seat. It definitely wasn’t tylenol they gave him, he’s decided. He has a prescription for T3's to help with the pain if he needs them crumpled in his pocket. 

He doesn’t really notice they’ve pulled up in front of Ben’s apartment until Ben raps softly on his window.

"I’m going to clear out the spare room," Ben tells him. "But if you want to you can lie down on the couch."

Sammy shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on a hook, slips off his shoes on autopilot.

"Do you want me to fill your prescription for you?" Emily asks.

Sammy blinks. Remembers the scrip in his pocket. "Thanks," he says dully.

He feels kind of like an asshole but also as though he’s only kind of piloting this ship.

"Be back soon," Emily says, mostly to Ben.

Ben looks at Sammy when she’s gone, worry clear. "Do you want to eat something?" He asks. "Or lie down first?"

Sammy hasn’t eaten since.... he cant remember when but he doesn’t feel hungry.

"I’ll just lie down." He says and adds, "Ben, thank you for..." he lets Ben fill in the blank, fill up the space of all the things he can’t talk about now.

"Of course, buddy," Ben says.

Sammy curls up on Ben’s couch and is asleep in minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read my other Long Mental Illness Fic (tm) then you know that one time I was in hospital and I got the Horrendous Soy Hospital Meal and listen....I don't remember most of that hospital visit but I can remember the exact texture of the sandwich and the yogurt. Sammy was smart to not eat it.


	2. Sammy Gets A Haircut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for memory loss, mild anxiety.

When he wakes up the next morning he’s still wearing the clothes he wore home from the hospital and his head is as clear as it’s been in…a while. At some point he’d migrated into the spare room. The light through the window he didn’t bother to pull the curtains on is weak and dawn-y, and the clock radio on the bedside table says it’s just past 6:00. An orange bottle of painkillers sits beside it. He can’t remember if he took one last night or not. He can’t remember a lot of the previous day. He searches his memory, comes up with vague impressions that don’t feel like they entirely belong to him.

He looks skeptically at the orange bottle, then puts it in the back of a drawer.

His mouth also feels like something died inside it and a quick search reveals that Ben has left a stack of towels and a new toothbrush on the dresser. Sammy tiptoes on bare feet to the bathroom, trying not to disturb the silent apartment, to wake Ben.

The light above the mirror blinds him temporarily and he peers at himself, not sure at first what is off about his reflection. He turns his head to one side, trying to see the back of his head. There’s a white bandage, and around the edges that he can see his hair is short and choppy. They’ve left it long everywhere else though and it looks…ridiculous. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry and brushes his teeth, avoiding his gaze in the mirror.

He wants to shower but he’s not sure what to do with the bandage, so he settles for washing his face and goes back to Ben’s spare room to change. On the way he snags one of Ben’s toques and jams it on his head.

Except it turns out he can’t change because all of his clothes are in the self storage on Water St along with the rest of his stuff because he wasn’t supposed to need it.

His mind skitters away from that thought, urging him out the apartment, into the morning air. His heart is pounding for no good reason and he tries to breathe slowly. His eyes prickle and he looks up at the lightening sky as though he can force the tears back with gravity.

_Don’t_ , he tells himself. He’s not entirely sure what he’s forbidding himself from doing. From thinking about.

The sun has crept further into the sky by the time Sammy realizes that he doesn’t have a key to get back in, or his phone to call Ben. He sits on the curb outside the building, contemplates buzzing up, worries about waking Ben.

He doesn’t have to worry for long though, because Troy pulls up.

Sammy blinks at the car, and stands up as Troy parks, hops out, opens the back door.

“Hey Sammy,” he says, handing out a shopping bag, “good to see you out and about. How are you feeling?”

Sammy is getting tired of that question, but Troy is just grinning and if he’s worried he’s hiding it and Sammy appreciates at least a semblance of normalcy so he takes the shopping bag and says, “Alright.”

“Good,” Troy says, “glad to hear it buddy.”

Ben is awake, as it turns out, and opens the door for them, immediately grabbing the shopping bag from Sammy and saying, “Dude I heard you earlier but then when I came out you weren’t here you’ve gotta like, take your phone with you.”

“I just needed some air,” Sammy says, and before Ben can jump back in, “sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t,” Ben says, “it’s not like either of us are used to a particularly normal sleep schedule.”

It turns out Troy has come to make them breakfast, so Sammy cuts fruit while Troy grills pancakes and Ben hovers and cleans dishes as they put them in the sink. It’s busy and close in the kitchen and Sammy just focuses on Troy and Ben chattering about Troy’s campaign and how Loretta is doing and the upcoming bass tournament They’re describing a circle around anything to do with the past couple days but Sammy ignores it, lets them circle.

When they’re done breakfast and Troy has left Ben turns to Sammy, brow furrowing and Sammy does not want another day of Ben’s worry and he’s grateful to Ben but he also feels Ben’s scrutiny as a cloying pressure.

So he forestalls it with an attempt at levity. "Don't have a heart attack when I say this but...I need to get a haircut."

Ben, thankfully, chuckles, "I think hell just froze over, but we can probably manage that."

"I also," Sammy adds, "need to get some of my stuff out of um, storage." He feels like he’s walking on eggshells, holding himself at arms length.

Ben furrows his brow but doesn't press. "I can grab some stuff for you while you're getting your hair cut." 

* * *

 

 

The hairdresser doesn’t blink when Sammy pulls off Ben's toque to reveal his unevenly shorn hair and the bandage stuck to his head.

"Can I take this off?" She asks.

"Um," Sammy says. "I think so?"

The back of his head has been throbbing on and off through the day, like it has its own intermittent heartbeat, but he doesn't think it’s been bleeding.

"Wow," the hairdresser says when she's pulled the bandage off, "that's a beaut."

Sammy doesn't say anything. Feels vaguely sick to his stomach. He's caught his eye in the mirrors that line the room.

"I've got some waterproof bandages so we can wash your hair," she breezes on. "We're going to have to cut it pretty short back here."

"That's fine," Sammy says. "Short is fine."

As he sits in the chair with the hairdresser looming over him, he feels nauseous. Ashamed. Ridiculous.

"I'm going to try and give it some shape so you can grow it back out easily," she says.

"Okay," he says. He wishes he could disengage from this moment and all the moments to come. He tries to breathe deeply but silently. He wants to vanish.

Ben slips into the salon just as Sammy is paying and thanking the hairdresser. He blinks once, twice and Sammy, half raises a hand as though he wants to run it over Sammy's newly shorn head. Drops it to his side. Grins.

"Don’t," Sammy says, attempting a look of mock warning that probably just looks pathetic, "say anything."

"Hey," Ben raises his hands in surrender, "I'm sure your manbun will be back in no time. I've got some of your clothes and stuff in the car."

It turns our Ben has several garbage bags of Sammy's stuff and they take two trips each bringing it all up. The bags seem to stare accusingly at Sammy and he says, "I guess I need to find somewhere to live. My lease is up on my apartment."

Ben is looking at a spot behind Sammy's head as he says, trying for nonchalance, "I mean... you could just live with me. It would be good to have a roommate and rent would be so much better for both of us."

And Sammy, still nauseous, still embarrassed, still trying to hold himself together with all his strength, says, "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB that I know nothing about...haircutting??? But I once did have to go get my hair cut reaaaaal short when I tried (and failed) to chop it all off in a fit of anxiety.


	3. Ben's Podcast Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here! Also Happy Phase 2 day!!
> 
> CW for nightmares

The first time he has the nightmare, he is standing in the radio station, alone in the booth. The equipment is all off, the only light from a small desk lamp.

“Ben?” he calls. Receives no answer.

“Chet?” Nothing.

“Merv?” he tries.

He goes to the door but it’s locked and suddenly his stomach is dropping like he’s stepped off the edge of a cliff, and a wind whips around the studio and the hotline rings.

He knows he can’t pick it up he’s rooted to the spot in terror as it rings and rings and

Clicks

And someone speaks

And it’s Jack

And he says, “Sammy. Please.”

And a Nothing opens up in the studio and it sucks the light into it and it’s going to swallow him up and he screams and

He doesn’t realize he’s woken up until he feels a hand on his shoulder and hears Ben saying, “Sammy,” in a voice equal parts sleep and worry.

Sammy tries to sit up but his heart is pounding and he can’t get his body to listen to him.

“Hey,” Ben says, “hey it’s okay.”

“What,” Sammy says. Rasps.

“You were screaming,” Ben says. “Are you okay?”

Sammy is not but he struggles upright and tries to say, “Sorry.” It comes out barely more than a breath but Ben says, “No Sammy it’s fine. I just wanted to make sure…”

In the dark Sammy can’t see Ben’s face but he can imagine his furrowed brow.

Sammy shakes his head, whether in response to Ben or to clear his head or… he doesn’t know but he shakes his head and says, “I’m okay. I’m just gonna. Wash my face. I’m okay.”

There’s a beat. Ben says, “Okay. If you need anything…”

“Thanks,” Sammy says. 

* * *

 

Neither Sammy nor Ben are used to what most people would consider a normal sleep schedule, but Sammy finds it easier than Ben to adjust his circadian rhythm. It helps that he feels drained all the time these days, even on those rare days when he sleeps through the night.

Most nights he has nightmares, sometimes the same one, sometimes variations upon the same themes. He wakes screaming more than once, but Ben doesn’t mention it and Sammy is grateful. They don’t talk about what Sammy is carefully labeling as ‘May 1st’. Sammy gets the stitches out and the only reminder now is his short hair. The T3’s sit nearly untouched in the medicine cabinet. Sammy moves more of his stuff out of the garbage bags.

One early morning Sammy wakes, heart pounding, face wet, from another nightmare and hears low voices outside. He steps out of the spare room to see Ben, lit by the stove light, sitting at the kitchen table. The voices Sammy had heard are coming from the bluetooth speaker, turned down low and sitting in front of Ben. He's nursing a cup of coffee and looks exhausted, tired eyes turned on Sammy as he shuts the bedroom door.

Ben doesn't ask what has woken Sammy up, and Sammy doesnt ask why Ben is drinking coffee at 4 in the morning.

He does, however, ask "what are you listening to?"

"Just a podcast," says Ben, mostly to his coffee.

Sammy pours himself a cup and sits down at the table. "I gathered that much," he says dryly.

"It's about myths and legends," Ben says, looking almost shyly at Sammy as though he's going to be shot down. "Not always factual, but fun."

The women on the podcast break into giggles at that point.

"They're talking about like an Australian Yeti now," Ben says. "They also get drunk."

"Must be nice," Sammy says.

They listen to the end of the podcast in silence. When its over, Ben turns off the speaker.

"How much sleep did you get?" Sammy asks.

"A couple hours," Ben says.

"Ben," Sammy starts, aware his 'dad voice' is coming out.

"I'll sleep in the morning," Ben says. "Or whatever. It's fine."

Sammy gives him a skeptical look.

"It'll _be_ fine," Ben amends. 

* * *

 

Sammy is lying in the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to not. Feel. Anything. His stomach is in knots and there's a lump in his throat that is going to burst out of him at any moment if he doesn't berate himself into submission. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and holds onto himself with an iron grip born from years of having to just. Be. Okay.

He hears the front door open and shut. Hears Ben saying, softly, "Sammy's probably sleeping." Hears Emily making a small sympathetic sound. Can't bear it. Sits up.

"Hey guys," he says.

"Hi Sammy," Emily says. "Did we wake you up?"

"No," he says. "I was just resting."

“Emily’s making us dinner,” Ben says.

“Uh, I think we’re _all_ making dinner,” Emily replies, dumping shopping bags on the kitchen counter. To Sammy she explains, “I’m concerned that you are Ben are eating nothing but takeout.”

“Hey,” Sammy says, “we also eat some delicious microwave dinners.”

Emily rolls her eyes while Ben high fives Sammy.

“Ben, I found a new podcast,” Emily says, starting to unpack the grocery bags and put stuff in the fridge.

Sammy leans on the other side of the counter that divides the living room from the kitchen.

“Careful,” Ben says, “Sammy doesn’t think podcasts are _proper shows_.”

“I listen to your insomnia podcasts with you,” Sammy says.

Emily hands him four small jars. “It’s called Millennials Vs. Classics,” she says, ignoring both of them.

“Who wins?” Sammy says, then, looking at the jars, “Do you have a spice cupboard, Ben?”

“Put it in with the coffee,” Ben says, at the same time as Emily says, “No, leave those out.”

Sammy sets them on the counter.

“Okay we can do an episode of that,” Ben says, “then we’re still behind on Potterless.”

“Is this what you guys do all day?” Sammy asks.

“It’s just nice to listen to something while you’re doing chores or whatever,” Emily says.

“That’s what the radio is for,” Sammy mumbles.

Emily hands him an onion, “Cut this up.”

By the time the episode has ended, they’ve managed to make a passable approximation of a stir fry. Ben put on the next podcast and they sit at the tiny kitchen table to eat.

After a few minutes Sammy says, “You know, I’ve never read Harry Potter either…”

Ben gasps in exaggerated horror.

“I saw the movies?” Sammy tries.

Ben turns to Emily, “I’ve never felt so betrayed.”

“They weren’t that good if I’m being honest,” Sammy says.

Ben cradles his head in his hands, “This is too much to take right now.”

Sammy winks at Emily.

They continue to listen as they finish dinner and clean up, Emily and Ben jumping in occasionally to discuss something, Sammy needling Ben whenever the host points out a plot hole.

When Emily has left later, Ben says to Sammy, “So, you can’t say you hate podcasts now, right?”

“I guess some are alright,” Sammy says, grinning, mock admission. He’s feeling content, a feeling he doesn’t want to examine too closely lest it melt away. “You’ll have to tell me what I should listen to.”

Ben claps his hands together, “Do I ever have a list for you. Just don’t,” he adds, “listen to any audio dramas. Those are the worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The podcasts mentioned in this chapter are, in order, [Spirits](https://www.spiritspodcast.com/), [Millennials Vs. Classics](http://millenialsvsclassics.libsyn.com/) and [Potterless](https://www.potterlesspodcast.com/).


	4. Sammy Stevens: Plant Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self Care Through Plant Husbandry is the title of my autobiography.

As June stretches on, Sammy starts making small noises about finding his own place to live and Ben makes much larger noises about him staying. So he stays. He starts making breakfast for Ben, nothing fancy, just overnight oats. He feels like it doesn’t come close to paying off his debt to Ben, but Ben gushes about them to Emily, while Sammy grins ruefully and feels a pit of guilt in his stomach.

Sammy knows Ben still isn’t sleeping well, unable to get tired, to sleep through the night. Sammy on the other hand feels constantly exhausted. He doesn’t have the energy to go out much, except when Ben prods and cajoles and pleads. Mostly he sits on the couch and tries not to think too much.

He is doing just that one afternoon when Emily lets herself in, arms full of plants.

“Hi Sammy,” she says bright as always.

“Ben’s not here,” Sammy says.

“I know,” she says, “I’m just bringing some stuff for the two of you. Can you give me a hand?”

Sammy follows her down to her car, and they bring up two bags of potting soil and a number of different sized ceramic flower pots.

“Are you building a greenhouse in Ben’s apartment?” Sammy asks.

Emily laughs, “Not quite. I told Ben I’d bring some herbs for you guys, for the kitchen.”

Emily buries her nose in a spiky looking plant. “Smell this,” she says, passing it to Sammy.

He tentatively sniffs, is met with a familiar odour he can’t place, oily and sharply sweet. “What’s that?” he asks.

“Rosemary,” Emily says. “Let me spread out a drop sheet and we can start potting.”

Emily shows him how to loosen the root ball on the plants, how much soil to use, and soon they have the rosemary as well as basil, oregano, parsley and two types of mint potted.

“They all like sun,” Emily explains as Sammy puts the last pot on the kitchen window sill. “Don’t worry – they can’t really get too much. And tell Ben to remember to water them regularly.”

“Sure,” Sammy says, looking at the window transformed by greenery. He brushes some soil absently off a basil leaf. 

* * *

 

The basil looks droopy and sick and the rosemary has turned brown and then black and then died completely and Ben complains to Sammy, “I don’t get it, I’m watering them all the time.”

“You might be overwatering them,” Sammy suggests. He’d done some cursory googling when the rosemary had started to turn black, wondering if it could be burning in the sun.

“What?” Ben says. “How can you _overwater_ a plant!?”

“Their roots can drown or rot,” Sammy says.

Ben throws his hands in the air, “I told Emily this was a bad idea.”

“Just leave them a couple days, let them drain a bit,” Sammy says. 

* * *

 

The basil is already looking perkier two days later, and Sammy ventures out of the apartment to get another rosemary plant. He misses the woody sweet scent that would cling to his fingertips.

There’s a summer garden centre in the parking lot of the mall and Sammy asks and employee with soil staining his apron where the rosemary is.

“Is this for your garden?” the employee asks as he leads Sammy to a back corner.

“No, for inside,” Sammy says. 

“Rosemary does well indoors,” the employee says, “it will over-winter a lot better than basil.”

“The basil won’t last the winter?” Sammy asks.

“It can, but it’s tricky. Here you go,” he says, showing Sammy a shelf of rosemary, surrounded by other herbs. “Is that all?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sammy says absently. He rubs the leaves of a rosemary plant between his fingers, raises them to his face and inhales. There are rows of lavender above, like a silvery cousin of the rosemary, and he strokes their soft purple flowers, leans in to smell them.

He buys a rosemary and a lavender, as well as two terracotta pots and, on impulse, a tiny cactus with a yellow paper flower glued to it. 

* * *

 

Sammy makes up a watering schedule for the herbs and sticks it to the fridge. He puts plant food on the shopping list and asks Emily if she has any cactus soil.

She shows up at the apartment full of excitement and carrying a yellow bag of soil in one arm and a light green plant with narrow trailing leaves in the other.

“What’s that?” Sammy asks as Emily sets the plant on the table.

“It’s a spider plant,” she says. “It’s like, the easiest plant you will ever take care of.”

“You need to stop buying us plants,” Sammy says.

“I didn’t buy this one,” Emily says. “I propagated it from my own. Let’s see this cactus.”

When Ben gets home later and sees the spider plant in the living room, he sighs and says to Sammy, “I hope you’re in charge of this one too.”

Ben has essentially ceded all control of the kitchen herb garden to Sammy, an arrangement which Sammy is alright with.

“Don’t worry,” Sammy says, “I’ve got it.” 

* * *

 

Sammy is walking back from the corner store when he sees a bright green pot out with someone’s garbage. There is a plant of some kind in it, although it seems to have seen better days. A few dead-looking sticks curl above two flat deep green leaves.

Sammy looks around nervously before picking it up, although clearly its former owner was trying to get rid of it.

It turns out the plant is in a plastic pot inside the green ceramic one, and a sticker on it tells him the plant is an orchid. It doesn’t look like what he thinks an orchid looks like, no stunning flowers speckled with different colours.

He googles “how to know if an orchid is dead”. He inspects the leaves and the roots, and they look healthy. It’s just the stalks that are yellow and dead-looking. He cuts them back carefully, and puts the orchid in his room, beside the little cactus.

A week later, he notices tiny green bugs hopping on the leaves of the orchid.

He immediately calls Emily, “There are bugs on my orchid.”

“You have an orchid?” is the first thing she says. “Where?”

“Do you know what they are?” he asks, ignoring her. “They’re little and green.”

“Sounds like aphids,” she says. “Have they spread to any other plants?”

Sammy feels a jolt of something like adrenaline, “I don’t know.”

He checks the cactus, pushing aside the yellow flower to peer under it, spines tugging gently at his skin.

“Can they like, fly?” he asks, heading out of the room.

“No no no,” Emily says, “they just jump to nearby plants.”

“How bad are they?” Sammy asks, sitting on the couch, checking the leaves of the spider plant one handed.

“I mean they’re pests,” Emily says, “but they’re not the end of the world. You just have to be careful to get rid of them all.”

Sammy lets out a quick breath. “I think they’re just on the orchid,” he says.

“Okay,” says Emily, “so you can isolate it in the shower or something.”

“The shower?” Sammy chuckles.

“Yeah, just to get it away from the other plants and spray it down. Put a few squirts of soap in a couple cups of water and spray it down.”

“And that will get rid of them?”

“It should. You might have to spray it again, but you shouldn’t lose the plant or anything.”

After Sammy has sprayed the orchid and left it isolated in the bathroom, he feels a sense of ease and accomplishment he hasn’t felt in ages, like maybe his life isn’t as shattered as it seems. He runs his fingers lightly over the herbs on the kitchen sill, gazing unseeing out the window, then steps away and begins making dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sammy: I may not be able to save my fiance from hell but at least I can make sure this orchid survives at all costs.


	5. Feelings Hour at the Arnold-Stevens Residence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode 78 was A Lot and it made me speed up my posting schedule so ENJOY.  
> CW for feelings of shame, what I would call a minor panic attack, and general brain bads.

It’s nearly noon when Sammy groggily stumbles out of his room. He hasn’t been sleeping well the past few nights and his bed feels like a gravity well from which he has to haul himself with all his strength.

“He lives,” Ben says dryly, looking up from his laptop.

Sammy grunts at him, looks at the nearly-empty coffee maker, and sets about making a fresh pot.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he says to Ben, perhaps a little belatedly.

“It’s just nice to see you out of your room,” Ben says.

“I leave my room all the time,” Sammy says. “I was in the living room yesterday.” He’s going for something like a casual nonchalance, an easy banter, but his head feels full of cotton and his stomach feels like a pit that’s permanently dropping.

“You spent an hour staring at the back of the couch,” Ben says, gently chiding.

Ben doesn’t push, he’s always so gentle like Sammy is going to shatter at any wrong breath and suddenly Sammy wants – needs – to shatter.

“I’m,” he says, throat squeezing his voice. He knocks his fist against the counter.

“I’m sorry,” he says and suddenly he breaks open, eyes pricking, voice cracking. “I’m _sorry_ okay I’m sorry that you have to take care of me I’m sorry I’m too pathetic to do _anything_ and I’m sorry you have to deal with all my _bullshit_ and I’m sorry I’m still living in your apartment and you’re stuck with me and I can’t just get my shit together and I’m,” he is gasping, almost sobbing, “I’m just sorry Ben I’m sorry.”

He’s still grasping the coffee pot and it’s shaking in his hand, he’s shaking, and he wants to throw it across the kitchen and he hears sound equipment shattering and he makes himself gently, gently put the pot down.

Ben is somehow at his side and Sammy can see that a hug is imminent, and he wants to shout, and he pushes Ben away and says, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what,” Ben says, softly.

“Haven’t I put you through enough?” Sammy says, almost shouts. “Don’t care. Don’t do so much for me because I can’t. ever. Repay you.”

He’s gasping through the weight of shame on his chest and Ben steps forward again, and puts a hand on Sammy shoulder and leads him to the couch and Sammy is shaking and he wants to vanish and he’s talking again, whispering or gasping or sobbing, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m – ”

Ben doesn’t move the hand from Sammy’s shoulder but doesn’t press for more as Sammy buries his face in his hands and sobs himself out.

When his breathing begins to even out, he wipes his eyes on his sleeve and accepts a tissue that Ben holds out without looking at him. The shame still tries to strangle him and he wants to apologize again or leave or die and Ben speaks.

“Sammy,” he says. “I love you. You are my best friend and you will never be a burden to me and you don’t need to repay me because we are best friends and that’s what friends do. They take care of each other and,” Sammy hears a crack in Ben’s voice and glances at him to see tears sliding silently down Ben’s face.

“Last year when Emily,” he stops, starts, “when Emily was gone you took such good care of me even when I wasn’t letting you. And I want to do the same for you, but even if you hadn’t, even if you never had to take care of me I’d still want to be here for you because _that’s what best friends do_ and I love you so much, Sammy.”

Ben is crying in earnest now, but goes on, “I’m not ‘putting up with you’, I love that we live together, I love your dumb plants and your overnight oats and how you make fun of my podcasts and watching Netflix together and eating the same takeout food and being your best friend.”

Sammy feels the weight of Ben’s love like an impossible yoke on his shoulders. He stares at the couch, shakes his head, tries to speak.

“I know,” Ben says, “I know you don’t feel like you deserve it but fuck that because I’m not going to stop loving you and caring about you no matter if you deserve it or not and you can’t do anything about it, okay?  ‘Cause you are my. Best. Friend.”

Sammy finally manages to say, “Ben.”

“Anyway,” Ben continues, “if you move out I’ll probably stop eating breakfast and I’ll waste away and then Emily would be pissed.”

Sammy summons up a chuckle, looks tentatively up at Ben.

“So,” says Ben, “stop being stupid and trying to shut me out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sammy says, voice rasping.

“Good,” Ben says.

“Ben?” Sammy says.

“Yeah?” Ben replies.

“I love you too.”

“I know dude.” 

* * *

 

Sammy falls asleep on the couch and he wakes hours later to soft voices. He listens to Emily and Ben talking and contemplates getting up. He can’t remember sleeping so well, and he feels content and warm under the blanket Ben must have thrown over him. He wants to keep himself floating in this half-awake state, listening to the gentle sounds of his friends, not dropping fully into himself. But of course, as soon as he thinks it, he finds himself settling into his body, into the guilt that still lurks behind his ribs.

There’s a part of him that _knows_ that Ben hadn’t been lying earlier, that Sammy isn’t just an inconvenience, but there’s a deeper part of him that whispers that he can’t trust anything. For a moment it threatens to choke him, and then he takes a deep breath and goes to knock on Ben’s door.

Emily opens the door and immediately throws her arms around him.

“Hey Emily,” he says.

“You know,” she says, “that you’re one of my best friends?”

“You’re one of mine too,” Sammy says, as she lets go of him.

“’Cause,” she continues, “I feel like you think I only come here to see Ben but that’s not true.”

“Hey,” Ben protests from behind her.

“I know,” Sammy says, “and I’m sorry. It’s not your fault I just… couldn’t believe anyone would want to be around me when _I_ really don’t want to be around me.”

“Unusually candid,” Ben says. “I’m counting that as a win.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Sammy says. “Feelings are _exhausting_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe If I Care About Sammy Enough It Will Turn Into Self Care


	6. The Great King Falls Bake-Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible this is the fluffiest chapter this fic will ever include.

“The library is having a bake sale,” says Ben.

It’s July and hot and Sammy has been hiding in the air conditioning. Well. Not _hiding_. It’s strategic and totally understandable.

“Is it even legal to do bake sales after high school?” Sammy asks.

Ben grins at him, “Extremely valid question, and apparently it is if you’re a public library in a town that is, let’s say, less than fully public minded.”

Sammy snorts, “You can say that again. So, when is it? You know I’m down to stock up on sweets if it’s for a good cause.”

“Actually,” Ben says, starting to look sheepish, “I said we’d bake something.”

“And by we,” Sammy says, lets it hang, seeing how bashful he can get Ben to look.

“Well, I don’t really bake,” says Ben.

“Mmhmm,” Sammy prompts.

“I thought, you know, you cook sometimes,” Ben continues. He won’t meet Sammy’s eyes. Sammy has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“They’re not really the same thing,” he points out.

“And you watch Bake-Off?” Ben says.

“You watch it with me,” Sammy points out.

“It’s just I already told Emily we would,” Ben says, and Sammy thinks he’ll let the poor guy off the hook.

“Well in that case,” he says, “I guess I can do my best.”

Ben looks up at Sammy in gratitude, and Sammy thinks he must see the laughter in his eyes, because Ben shoves him and says, “You’re the worst.”

It turns out there’s a spreadsheet with what everyone has volunteered to bake.

Sammy whistles as he scrolls through it. “There are some serious treats on here,” he says. “We’ve got some real competition.”

“Well,” says Ben, “you do at least.”

“I was thinking,” Sammy replies, “this could be a learning experience for you.”

Ben looks askance at him.

“I mean,” Sammy says, “you can’t really say it’s from _both_ of us if it’s just me doing all the work…”

“I’ll buy the ingredients,” Ben says. “You don’t want me in the kitchen.”

“C’mon,” Sammy says, “it’ll be fun.” 

* * *

They decide to make lemon squares, Sammy reasoning they can’t be _too_ hard to get right.

He revises his estimation almost immediately.

They retreat from the kitchen, leaving the window open to let the smoke out.

“I don’t think the ‘preheat oven’ step has ever been this much trouble,” Sammy muses.

“I’m sorry,” says Ben. “I should have checked the oven before.”

“What was in there?” Sammy asks. He’d been unable to tell what the lumps of charcoal had been in their previous life.

 “Uh,” says Ben, “I was gonna heat up some chicken fingers last night and I…forgot about them?”

“But why did you put them right on the rack??” Sammy asks.

Ben glances back at the kitchen, “Well, I knew I couldn’t put them on a plate.”

“But you didn’t think of using a baking sheet?”

Ben wrinkles his brow at Sammy, who braves the kitchen to grab a baking sheet, which he flourishes at Ben.

“Oh, a pan thingy,” says Ben. “I didn’t uh…”

Sammy almost laughs. “This is all a part of the process,” he says. “No harm done.”

When the smoke has cleared out a bit, they head back into the kitchen.

“Okay,” says Sammy, “I’ll stick with the oven stuff, and take the crust alright? You can work on the filling.”

“The filling,” Ben repeats. He sounds like he’s still a little freaked by all the smoke.

“Here,” Sammy says, steering him over to the counter where he’s put out all the ingredients, “How about we do the crust together, and then you can tackle the filling.”

This seems like more Ben’s speed, so Sammy measures and sifts and pours and lets Ben do the stirring. He doesn’t ask if they have an electric mixer; he doesn’t want to see what havoc Ben can wreck with one.

Moving around the kitchen with Ben has a pleasing familiarity that Sammy doesn’t want to examine to closely lest it crumble under his gaze, so he just lets himself focus on the baking: measuring, checking if the oven has preheated, swatting Ben’s hand out of the crust mixture.

“That is pure sugar, flour and butter,” Sammy scolds.

“I know,” says Ben, “it’s great!”

Sammy puts the crust in the oven and sets a timer for 15 minutes.

“I’m gonna wash these dishes while you get started on the filling,” Sammy tells Ben, “but sing out if you need help.”

Ben grumbles but somehow when Sammy has finished the dishes and is drying his hands he’s made something at least resembling a lemon filling in texture and colour.

“See?” Sammy says. “I knew you could do it.”

“You can dial the proud dad bit waaay back,” says Ben. “It wasn’t that hard.”

He looks sheepishly proud though and Sammy can't help but grin. 

* * *

When the crust comes out, Sammy makes Ben pour his filling over top, then puts the whole thing back in the oven for another 20 minutes. As the squares bake, the scent of them begins to fill the apartment and Ben keeps ducking back into the kitchen to check how much time is left.

“We’re gonna have to sample these, right?” Ben says. “Like, just to make sure they’re fit for general consumption.”

As Sammy takes the squares out of the oven, Ben produces a knife saying, “Just like, one of the edges. No-one likes edge pieces anyway.”

“Are you kidding?” Sammy says, “Edge pieces are the best!”

“That is the wildest thing you have _ever_ said to me,” Ben says. “How does it feel to be so colossally wrong?”

“Agree to disagree,” Sammy says.

“I will agree to nothing,” Ben says, hovering in a vaguely concerning way as Sammy puts the hot pan on the counter.

“You know these have to cool, right?” Sammy says, and Ben deflates.

“I mean, once they firm up you can definitely try one,” Sammy adds, but Ben shakes his head, looking mournfully at the squares.

“What’s that?” he says.

Sammy blinks. “What’s what?”

Ben points, “The floaty stuff in the lemon.”

Sammy looks closer, and sure enough there seem to be flecks in the lemon filling. He wrinkles his brow, then looks over to the flour, tucked against the wall.

“Ben,” he says slowly, realization dawning, “did you use _whole wheat_ flour in the filling?”

“Um,” says Ben, “I used what you used for the crust.”

Sammy can’t help laughing now. “It’s just bits of the grains from the flour,” he explains to Ben.

“They don’t dissolve?” Ben asks.

“No,” Sammy says. “It’s okay though! They’re not gonna taste any difference. You won’t even be able to tell.”

“Unless you look at them.”

Ben seems genuinely bummed, and Sammy leads him out of the kitchen to let the squares cool.

“Ben, you know how many times I’ve made that mistake? And even bigger ones! That’s just what baking is.”

Ben looks skeptical.

“How about this,” Sammy says. “We make another batch, and we take those to the bake sale and keep these ones for ourselves.”

“So, we would, theoretically, get to eat all of them,” Ben says.

“That would be the case,” Sammy agrees. “And honestly your version is probably healthier too.” 

* * *

They’re at the library early to help Emily set up for the bake sale, the three of them and a few more library staff as well as Ron and Troy arguing about where the barbeque should go.

“You can tell me the truth,” Emily says, when Sammy hands her the saran wrapped lemon squares, “did you do all the work on these?”

Ben is indignant. “The lack of faith,” he says, “is astounding.”

“Ben was a great chef,” Sammy says loyally and truthfully, then adds, “after a few false starts.”

Emily laughs, “Classic.”

“Hey,” Ben says, “I think the most important thing to take away is that I got there eventually, alright.”

“We’re so proud of you,” Sammy says.

“They grow up so fast,” Emily says to Sammy.

Ben glowers at them for a beat, two… and then they all laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One time my best friend and I made lemon squares but we put whole wheat flour in instead of all purpose which honestly doesn't affect the squares at all except there are like little floaty bits of grain.   
> Also, I am Sammy re: that's just butter and sugar and my mum is Ben re: I Know And I Love It.


	7. Sammy vs. Familiarity

Lily has been leaving Sammy messages. He doesn’t even listen to them at first, consigning them to gather metaphoric dust in his voicemail. But then he makes the mistake of listening to one, and wishes he could throw his phone across the room, except he’s trying really hard to not do things like throw and smash stuff. He presses delete, erasing her too too familiar voice.

That night his nightmares are full of familiarity being swallowed up by a _wrongness_. He wakes tangled in his sheets and thinks he is trapped forever in the nightmare until he sees the slice of light under his door. He lets his heartrate slow before padding to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The new nightmare won’t let him go and he starts playing the radio low as he falls asleep, in an attempt to quiet his mind, to focus on anything other than his own thoughts. He feels a degree of panic he’d thought he’d moved on from.

Ben keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints that he thinks Sammy could use the distraction of work.

“The station is still in pieces or whatever,” Sammy argues, “and I haven’t said I’m going back.”

“I am all too aware,” Ben retorts.

Sammy retreats to his room feeling shitty and angry and guilty, and records a new voicemail greeting.

Then he does throw his phone, but just onto his bed. It bounces off his pillow and settles on the red comforter and it is _not_ satisfying but it’s all he has. He rakes his hand through his hair, which is slowly growing back, and closes his eyes against their stinging. He wants to escape from himself.

He slinks back out of his room to apologise to Ben.

Ben is on the phone, probably with Emily, talking low, looking at something in a notebook in front of him. When Sammy’s door snicks closed, he looks up, then shuts the notebook and says into the phone, “I gotta go.”

A pause.

“Yeah, I’ll call back.”

He hangs up.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Sammy squints suspiciously at the notebook, and Ben slides it under an elbow in the least subtle manoeuvre Sammy thinks he’s ever seen.

“I,” he says. “I know you’re just… worried. About me.”

Ben waits for Sammy to say more.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy says, quietly.

“You don’t have anything –” Ben starts.

“No, I do,” says Sammy. “I’m sorry for snapping earlier and for,” _being like this_ , he thinks, “for pushing back so hard on – on the work thing I –”

Ben interrupts him now, standing. “No, Sammy, I get it. And _I’m_ sorry too, I snapped as well, and I’ve been pushing you and I know it’s… I know you’re still…”

Ben trails off as he wraps his arms around Sammy and Sammy grips him back, leaning his forehead against the top of Ben’s head.

“I still feel guilty,” Sammy says, “about you having to worry about me.”

“It’s not _have to_ ,” Ben replies. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” says Sammy.

He gives Ben one last squeeze and lets him go.

“I’ll stop bugging you about work,” says Ben.

“And I’ll try to stop wallowing,” says Sammy.

“You’re not _wallowing_ ,” says Ben.

“I’ll try and let you help,” Sammy amends.

“Deal,” says Ben. 

* * *

 

“Giant dogs,” Sammy says again.

“ _Dude_ ,” Ben almost pleads, and Sammy supresses a laugh. “You have to know they were werewolves. Please tell me you’re messing with me.”

“Ben,” Sammy says patiently, “everyone knows werewolves aren’t real.”

Ben throws his hands into the air, apparently deciding it’s not worth the effort, and changes topic, “You wanna go to Rose’s? We can see if Troy will meet us.”

“Sure,” Sammy says, feeling buoyed by something he can’t name.

After he’d collected Ben from the football field, which had been pretty badly torn up in all the commotion, they’d followed the stragglers from the game out to the parking lot. With the dogs gone, people had turned from stampeding in panic to milling around, seemingly unsure of whether they should stay for the rest of the game, before wandering out to their cars as though it had been a perfectly normal high school football game.

“Sweet,” Ben says, “it’ll be just like old times.”

Sammy can feel himself deflate so suddenly it’s almost comical.

“Actually,” he says, “you go on without me, I’m not feeling too good.”

Ben shoots him a concerned look and seems about to protest.

“It’s fine,” Sammy says. “I’ll see you back at your apartment.”

“Okaaay,” Ben says skeptically.

The parking lot is emptying out, but people keep trying to catch his eye or calling out to him. Sammy waves half-heartedly, and gets into his car.

He for a moment considers going back to the apartment, but the thought is claustrophobic and instead he drives out to the edge of town. There’s a mountain lookout, a few picnic tables and some parking spots that tourists can pull into and take some pictures, have a picnic, or what-have-you.

It’s empty today though, the afternoon chill and overcast, not November-cold yet, but the threat of autumn is in the air. Sammy sits on the edge of a picnic bench and stares unseeing out over the mountains.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, a breeze cutting through his thin sweater, but the sky is dimmer when he hears wheels crunching on gravel and Troy’s car pulls up.

“Thought that was you,” Troy says to Sammy, slamming the door and coming over to sit beside him. “What brings you up here?”

Sammy shrugs.

“It was nice hearing you and Ben at the game,” says Troy. He doesn’t say _like old times,_ but Sammy can hear it in his voice.

He raises one shoulder, minimal acknowledgement.

“I miss seein’ you around,” says Troy.

“I’m around,” says Sammy, finally.

He can _feel_ himself being shitty, but he can’t entirely bring himself to care.

“Last time I saw you out was at the library bake sale,” Troy fires back.

Which… may be true.

Sammy hesitates between apologizing and arguing and settles for silence. The sun peeks out from behind a mountain, the sky muted and gold.

“I don’t wanna pester you,” says Troy, “you gotta do what’s best for you but… Well, there are people who care about you, and who wanna see you.”

Sammy makes to reply, but Troy continues. “When you’re ready, I mean. We’ll be here.”

Sammy’s shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he manages.

Troy puts a hand on Sammy’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze and they sit together in silence and watch the sun sink the rest of the way behind the mountains.

“Time to get home then,” Troy says, standing.

Sammy thinks that maybe after Tory leaves he’ll just stay out here as the sky darkens from twilight and it the air cools and

“C’mon,” Troy says, “up and at ‘em.”

“What?” says Sammy.

“I’m not lettin’ you stay out here by yourself and leave our little buddy at home worrying after you.”

With a twinge of guilt, Sammy realizes he hadn’t even _thought_ of Ben.

“Plus,” Troy continues, “I bet you haven’t had a thing to eat.”

Sammy hops down from the picnic bench and walks with Troy over to their cars. Before he gets in, Troy give him a tight hug.

“Text me when you get home, okay?” Tory says.

Part of Sammy wants to grumble that he’s a _fully grown adult_ , but another part of him is touched by the concern.

“I will,” he says.

“Good,” says Troy, and gets into his car.

Sammy climbs into his own car, turns the radio on low, and drives home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me about podcasts at [my podcast blog](https://autisticjonsims.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments are like plant food for the author in Recovery.
> 
> There is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4YQPchhfy1abag7YUa8N2n?si=wXZnzMYlQgK5m-Thd-NMUQ) that kind of goes with this fic and is also kind of just about Sammy in general.


End file.
